The next afternoon Colin had to help his mum in the guesthouse, so I decided to write some lyrics. I needed to forget about what had happened at the doctor’s the day before. That had really done my head in. I just couldn’t accept that all that stuff was caused by something… What had she called it? Paranormal? Supernatural? Whatever it was, it was weird, but there was no way I was calling it any of those things. Maybe I was in denial, but I just couldn’t go there. Mum had asked me how it went and seemed relieved when I used the allergies excuse again. I wasn’t ready to tell her what Dr Cahill had really said.
I didn’t need to think about that now; anyway I had more important things to consider. It was far too long since I’d written a song. The noise on the building-site-that-was-my-home wasn’t making it the most inspirational place to write, so I threw my notebook into my patchwork bag along with my favourite pen, and headed for the village. I knew exactly where I’d go – to Avarna’s communal garden. It was in a little hidden-away spot down by the river, the perfect place to write a song.
As I walked along the road I began to feel a bit better. I was happy with this plan. Arranging words to music has always been an important part of my life. After writing a song, I feel like a weight has been lifted from me, as if some of my deepest feelings have been released. I suppose you could say it’s become my way of dealing with things. I find it much easier to write a song than to talk my problems over with somebody else. Putting the right words to my feelings seemed to make them more real, more permanent. Maybe that was why I found it so hard to find the words to describe what was happening… About what the doctor had said. I didn’t believe in that kind of thing. I didn’t want that to be part of my world, to consider the ‘supernatural’ a reality.
Love, on the other hand, was a totally different matter. I wanted that to be part of my life. I wanted it more than anything. I bent down and picked a daisy and pulled off the petals as I walked along. ‘He loves me, he loves me not, he loves me, he loves me not, he loves me.’
I hurried down the path to the garden entrance, pushed open the white painted iron gate and stepped inside. The garden was surrounded by a low hedge. It was small but perfect, with a wrought-iron bench, a water fountain in the centre and a picnic table down near the river. I was glad to be alone in this miniature paradise.
A family of ducks floated on the river, the smallest one diving beneath the surface every few moments. The water was still except for the ripples made by the ducks. I was tempted to skim a stone and watch it bounce along the surface, but resisted. I didn’t want to frighten them away.
A path led through the garden to the wrought-iron bench, which was under an oak tree. The iron felt cold against my back as I settled down, my patchwork bag beside me. Hundreds of people must have sat on this bench, each with their own stories, their own obsessions, their own pain. I took out my notebook and pen and started to write.
The words seemed to flow on to the page as easily as the river ran downstream. I like to just jot down whatever comes to me, not worrying whether it makes sense or not, and then work on it later. I read the words I’d just written, knowing that they were far from perfect, but knowing too that they reflected my feelings so, if nothing else, they were certainly honest.
When I thought about the last song I’d written it seemed like a lifetime ago. So much in my life had changed since then. I remembered it had been in Dublin, in my bedroom. I’d been so angry with Cian. I couldn’t believe what he’d done. When I thought back now I wondered if maybe I’d been angry with myself for putting up with his crap for so long.
I looked up at the sky with its patches of blue and vast white and grey clouds, and for the first time I felt happy to be living here. Maybe I could adjust to country life after all. I loved the quietness, the sense of peace. I began to understand why so many people moved away from cities. Mary had told me that there were lots of creative types living in and around the village, artists and musicians who had been captivated by its tranquillity. Maybe my songs would get better now that I had such an inspiring place to write.
I picked another daisy and began plucking off its delicate white petals. Each one spiralled in the air before dropping on to my notebook.
‘He loves me, he loves me not, he -’
The gate creaked. I looked up and was surprised to see Nick walking across the grass towards me, a guitar case slung across his back. Oh my god. I dropped the daisy to the ground and slammed the notebook shut. It was so weird to be thinking about someone so intensely, and then for them to show up out of nowhere.
‘Hi, Jacki,’ he said.
‘Hey.’ I was so surprised by his arrival that I didn’t have time to get anxious about it. Nick looked like he hadn’t got much sleep, but still managed to look irresistible.
‘What’s the story?’ he said.
‘Nothing much.’
‘Are you going to the table quiz in the parish hall tonight?’ He took his guitar off his shoulder.
‘I don’t know; maybe,’ I said. I remembered Mum mentioning something about it the previous week. The idea of it hadn’t exactly excited me.
‘Well, if you do go, you can be on our team if you want. Sarah has to work so we’re one short.’
I was suddenly most definitely going to the table quiz in the parish hall. I hoped that he hadn’t noticed my face light up.
‘OK… well, I’ll most likely be there,’ I said, as indifferently as possible.
‘Right so. It starts at eight.’
I nodded. There was silence. Nick looked away, glancing awkwardly around the garden.
‘Do you want to sit down?’ I asked, moving my patchwork bag so that it didn’t separate us.
‘Sure.’ He leaned his guitar against the end of the bench.
‘Your mum was telling me you’re pretty good at guitar,’ I said, desperate to keep the conversation going.
‘I’m all right, I guess. I play lead in my band. We were playing a gig in Sligo last night. I’m just back from there now. Haven’t slept in ages, as if you couldn’t tell.’ He smiled, then yawned and looked as if he might collapse from exhaustion any second.
‘OK, so I won’t take that personally then,’ I joked. I wanted to add that I hadn’t really slept either. But I didn’t want to get into that. This was way too important. I was alone with Nick. I had to make the most of it, not start talking about supernatural nonsense. He didn’t seem the type to believe in that kind of thing.
‘What kind of guitar do you have?’ I asked, steering the conversation towards something we had in common.
‘An electric one, called a Fender Strat,’ he answered, punctuating each syllable as if he were talking to a two-year-old.
‘I have one of those too. I’ve been mainly playing acoustic lately though.’
Nick looked shocked. ‘You play guitar?’
‘A bit.’
‘How long have you been playing?’
‘Nearly five years now.’
‘Are you in a band?’
‘I’ve been in a few, but not at the moment.’
‘Concentrating on your solo career?’
‘I suppose I am,’ I said with a laugh. This was going well.
‘What’s your favourite band?’ he asked. He frowned and I knew a lot hinged on my answer.
‘Ooh, that’s a tough one…’ I knew what he was doing – he was testing me. It was a way of separating the actual music lovers from the posers, i.e. the people who wore Ramones T-shirts but couldn’t name any of their songs.
‘I guess Thin Lizzy would be pretty high on the list,’ I said.
‘Class.’
‘What about you? What’s your favourite band?’
‘Metallica,’ he said, without hesitation.
‘I’m not a hardcore fan,’ I said. ‘But they’re unreal live.’
‘You’ve seen them?’
‘Yeah, I saw them in Marlay Park a few years ago.’
‘Me too.’ He smiled again. A perfect smile, I decided. He had nice teeth. And I noticed he hadn’t shaved. I liked his rugged look. But I had to remind myself he was with Sarah. Get a grip – he has a girlfriend.
What followed was an intense conversation about iconic rock stars and guitar amps and distortion pedals. I had talked about them with countless guys in the past, so the words just fell out of my mouth. All I was thinking was how adorable Nick looked in that T-shirt, and how cute his smile was, and how much I desperately wanted to touch his lips with mine. Over the past few days I’d tried my best to stop fixating on this guy, who I barely knew, but now I realized that I couldn’t fight it. It was official: he was just too perfect.
‘What are you doing down here by yourself anyway?’ he asked.
I had to force my thoughts back to the conversation.
‘I was just writing some lyrics.’
‘Really? Can I see them?’
‘No. I mean… they’re not finished yet… You can see them when they’re finished.’ I was reluctant to hand them over: they more than hinted at a sense of unrequited love. There was no way he was going to find out my true feelings, whether he recognized the inspiration or not.
‘OK…’ He yawned again and stood up. ‘Well, I hope you can make it tonight.’
He hoped I could make it. When I like a guy, I tend to examine every word that comes out of his mouth with the determination of a profiler interviewing a suspect. He hoped I could make it. Perhaps things were not as bleak as they had originally seemed. He gave me another irresistible smile and headed back down the path towards the gate. He looked back once, and I really hoped he didn’t catch me staring at him.
Once he’d left the garden I read the words of my new song again.
I know it would be perfect
But you will never see;
Your silent conversations
Were never meant for me.
When I think about it
I shouldn’t ache so bad.
How can I miss something
That I never had?
Standing in this prison,
I helped create my cell.
How can a thing from heaven
Make my life a hell?
My heart’s in little pieces;
I must be going mad.
How can I miss something
That I never had?
Yes. I’d definitely made the right decision not showing it to him.
It started to drizzle so I gathered my things and put them in my bag. I was glad the oak tree provided some shelter. I wanted this moment to last, so I closed my eyes. He loves me, he loves me not, he really hoped I could make it, he loves me, he loves me not. I stayed there for a few minutes, lost in my thoughts.
It was just a slight summer shower, so when it was easing off I got up and followed the path round to the water fountain on the other side of the oak tree. I watched the raindrops splash into it, joining the water that trickled down through the grey stone. The sound of the water had a wonderfully calming effect. I noticed there was a little brass plaque at the bottom of the fountain. Stepping closer I could see that the engraving on it read:
In memory of Beth Cullen, who spent happy times here.
There was that name again. If there was a fountain dedicated to her, she must have been very special. Her family must really miss her, I thought as I left the garden and headed back to the caravan.